


Wedding Bells and Personal Hells

by Reshma (small_epiphanies)



Series: GEMSTONES IN THE ROUGH [4]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Black Widow (Movie 2020), Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Decisions, Canon-Typical Violence, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic Avengers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everything Hurts, Extended Metaphors, F/M, Hydra (Marvel), Like so much, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Oblivious Clint Barton, Other, Please Kill Me, Post-Avengers (2012), Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, SHIELD, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Swearing, Symbolism, Tony Is a Good Bro, Trust Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22394275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/small_epiphanies/pseuds/Reshma
Summary: "The course of true love never did run smooth."- William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 1 Scene 1
Relationships: Clint Barton/Laura Barton, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Natasha Romanov & Avengers Team, Nick Fury & Natasha Romanov, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Natasha Romanov, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: GEMSTONES IN THE ROUGH [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1331921
Comments: 14
Kudos: 35





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The art of longing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17057585) by [itsallAvengers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallAvengers/pseuds/itsallAvengers). 
  * Inspired by [Anything That Bleeds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3908632) by [mypedia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mypedia/pseuds/mypedia). 



> I debated deleting this whole thing but I spent months doubting myself. I hope someone appreciates it. I am forcing myself to post because I don't like to abandon projects.
> 
> I read too much Heist Society.
> 
> In no way do I mean to offend anyone from the Middle Eastern countries mentioned. I am in no way knowledgeable enough to talk about solutions against the Taliban or restrictive governments, therefore I am reiterating that this is all fiction and an ignorant Westerner's perspective. I crammed the entirety of Middle Eastern conflict in an hour and the escape route is inconsistent with reality.

**_"The course of true love never did run smooth."_ **

\- William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 1 Scene 1

Natasha Romanoff has always had a fascination with gemstones. It’s certainly not anything extensive or obsessive, just something she’s noticed through her lifespan in her particular trade. There was a heist early on in her S.H.I.E.L.D. days that she was sent out to stop a jewel heist con with Barton.

The center of the room was a maze of displays with stanchions and velvets carpets, techies on the upper floors maneuvering stage lights across the sealed glass displays with armed guards stationed at every entrance, elevator and exit; the long evening gowns and tuxedos flying past her were an eyesore as old waitress bustled to the edges of the circular ballroom with silver platters as their patrons drunkenly swooned and fawned over the billionaires and officials in the same airspace as them. The polished mezzanines were lined with professional geoscientists in white gloves and goggles as men with expensive suits and obnoxious looking thick framed glasses intensely overlooked the heavily armored cases containing priceless gems and jewelry. 

At first, she thought the stones on display in the Uffizi Gallery in 2006 were a bunch over overpriced rocks with an over-the-top protection detail. Italy was stiflingly hot and Natasha didn’t remotely have time to wonder exactly  _ why _ the masses were so interested in throwing their money at rare rocks that didn’t do anything other than take up space. In honesty, it seemed to her that buying something would only make her a target with a dent in her ill equipped wallet.

It had been a night of middle-aged men leering at her and flirting as their wives were caught up in the latest gossip; she had been offered too many suggestive daiquiris and had to refrain on more than one occasion from shooting the philanderers clean with grimy hands on her hip and their vomit-inducing seduction techniques in Florence. She had been in a skin-tight red dress, an obnoxious amount of cleavage on display, heart beating calmly in her chest with a gun holstered just above the leg slit and a brown itchy wig when her breath died in her throat.

In front of her lay The Bahia Emerald, pink abalone pearls from the coast of Mexico, imperial jade flown only found in Burma and the rarest remains of pink star diamond imported from South Africa. They were the main attractions of the evening that took up the whole room with their presence and just a glimpse of each jewel seemed to outshine the light from the evening sky through the windows; they were glittering and enticing with their weight, irresistibly expensive and materialistic to the greedy eyes of the flocking crowds under glare of security cameras and alarms lining every square inch of the museum, and yet, hidden behind all glamour and initial reflections bouncing from off the spotlights was a rare beauty. 

It was a stone in the corner, near the elevator she was supposed to be keeping recon on for when the jewel thieves appeared . There was something surreptitiously different and alluring to Natasha, maybe the flash of it in the shadows behind the main crowds or just the way they sat still but emanated something that almost seemed alive. Nothing else in the room could have compared, from then on, Natasha never saw anything else so magnetic.

It spoke to her. She will never utter it aloud to anyone but somewhere in her lack of a soul, in the tar pit where her heart should be, she genuinely believes that something inside her knew; she knew that the stone in the corner of the room closest to her, obscured by the shine and lure of all the other bijoux, was concatenated to her subconscious in some way.

She knows. It sounds crazy, it sounds like every Sunset Boulevard psychic or crystal junkie on cocaine in a subway terminal trying to sell her an overpriced rock but she  _ knew _ . She felt it in her bones and that's something she's learned in her profession to bet her life on.

She was frozen to the floor in the middle of the gallery for a split second, the wind knocked out of her and, just for a brief moment, all of her composure was lost. It couldn't have been more than five seconds that she was dazed but it felt like an eternity. It was a trance, half conscious and lulled by a mystery within herself. 

A body bumped her shoulder as he passed by, apologized with fake Italian accent saying, "Scuzi!" as Clint's eyes darted quickly to hers to make sure she was alright.

Just like that, the reverie was over and the mission was back on.

The heist was stopped and on her way out, clutching her oversized wig to her scalp and concealing a broken rib, she tossed back one last glance into the corner of the ballroom where she felt she left a part of her behind that night in Florence.

Green and beautiful dazzling, she said goodbye to the first of two things in the world she would truly fall in love with.

Over the years, she’s learned that diamonds symbolize  character, ethics, and faithfulness. Rubies are said to be signs of love and emeralds the telltale of growth, reflection, peace and balance. Amethysts are for healing and protection, pearls for wisdom and garnets for grounding the spirit. She even owns one of the rarest stones in the world originally found in Russia; it is Alexandrite, a color-shifting stone that sits on an old necklace with the letter ‘R’ engraved that is the last whisper of her family. She’s read into the claims of crystals and their energy properties, the scam artists selling Chakras and cheap stones on the sidewalks of Time’s Square, and even traded her common sense for the belief that she could connect ‘spiritually’ to these exorbitant magic bean sprouts.

It’s all bullshit; there is no other-worldly power in humanity’s grandiose displays of wealth, Thor would know. She knows this to be true, in her core, and yet...

It doesn’t change her mind; though she knows it’s a bit materialistic, her love for one stone and trust never falters.

What caught her eye that night behind the flashiness of facades of wealth was a stone tucked away in the back corner of the bidding stage that she would learn to be a Demantoid Garnet.

She sees it in a small pendant that night and later learns that it's the rarest andradite originally found in the Russian Ural mountains and is somewhat unattainable in the twenty-first century. It appears a striking and transparent-like yellow-green, more breathtaking than all the jades or emeralds she's ever seen. In the center, there are feathery golden threads that tend to curve and resemble a horsetail, the telltale sign of pure garnet and the trademark of a Russian stone. It also has fire, the dispersion of white turning to all colors of the spectrum, more intense than diamonds.

In the following years, she’ll learn that the stone is supposed to remove obstacles that may come in the way of love and aids insecurities that put a strain on relationships. It helps clear the senses and helps alleviate feelings of isolation and loneliness.

It's funny, in the way when nobody else is laughing 'funny', that she learns the truth of her heart shortly after she sees the garnet for the first time. She would've never considered herself insecure before that day in Italy, but now she's hyper aware that the hole inside her is yearning for someone instead of just desolate and empty. 

She sees the veracity that she's been cold and alone all her life, long before HYDRA, the KGB and the Red Room. She knows what she needs and she'll die trying to get it.

When Natasha Romanoff learns these things, true in the mythology or the presence of god in this universe or not, from then on, she knows she is the personification of Demantoid.

She never told anyone, not a soul alive, about how she feels the stone’s presence and meaning in her bones.

It is beautiful in the worst ways that she finds solace in the hearsay of something so deceitful.

Throughout the following years, missions and operations, she pays attention to the flashiness of an engagement ring or new set of pearl earrings. The gemstone someone wears is a big indication of who they are on the inside; what they strive for and what they most desire in life.

Natasha Romanoff assesses the tiny jewels in the jewelry of her marks and targets as both to analyze their income levels, their superstitiousness and to understand their hopes and dreams. 

Because, her only hope is to be loved by Clint Barton.

\-------------

It hadn't happened all at once; her mission from her handler, Петрович, was to kill. She only had a brief window to get everything correct but she had never failed. It wasn't a difficult operation but she still treated everything like the stakes were always high.

That's when she met Clint Barton, a S.H.I.E.L.D. operative that had been on her radar for sometime.

It was 2000 during and a simple recon mission in Turkey. While other agents were causing a diversion floors below at the hustle and bustle of an evening party for campaign fund donators and the elitist one percent, her job was to to torture a wealthy French businessman for the information he had on KGB linked murders and corrupt politicians. She was halfway through ‘disposing’ of what was left of the men on a rooftop hotel in Bursa.

Before she could send the final corpse of the politician, slit throat and blank eyes, into a barrel of fluoroantimonic acid, she heard the quietest shuffle of feet behind her. She was almost too late, reeling around and caught off guard as she heard the click of a weapon and the stairwell door frame accidentally creak.

Standing there was an ashy-brown haired, Western-featured man, at least a decent foot taller than her and in his early twenties with a bow and arrow aimed precisely in between her eyebrows as she spun to face him, the safety of her gun already flicking off.

American. Assassin. Obstacle. Eliminate immediately. Complete her goddamn mission.

She tried to catch him by surprise by jumping off the rooftop with her grappling hook within fingers' reach from the thirty-second floor but she had obviously misjudged the situation. He had already lunged for her and dragged by her hair as she kicked and attempted to drop kick him.

"Bastard! I'll fucking kill you!" Natasha seethed in Russian, biting his arm grasped around her neck and flipping him to the ground with her gun cocked and loaded.

It didn't have the intended effect, however. Her feet were soon kicked from beneath her. She may have been one of the best assassins out there but the man had an extra fifty pounds, a good three feet and more dexterous training than her. Even as she fought dirty with her Widow Bites electrocuting him in between his legs, roundhouse kicking his head and beginning to triangle choke him on top of his shoulders while elbowing to the back of his neck, she knew she was outwitted with his aim and precision.

She could not lose; losing meant failure; failure meant disgracing the KGB; and disgrace meant that if she returned alive, she wouldn't be for much longer. Her death wouldn't be painless with medieval style tortute devices, the most humiliating way to go and her body disposed of without a trace. She'd be nothing but a ghost. If she lost as the Black Widow, it would mean that all those years of seeing young girls her age in the Red Room, afraid, abused and broken, killing them when a mission went sour, burying their frail bodies under snow without a grave, losing her childhood to other people's wars or politics and a body count adhered to her incessant remains of a conscious would be all for nothing.

She was a weapon and she was perfectly trained to do her job; she could not fail.

It was a dance of sorts, foxtrots and a tango of both assassins putting their full force into quick footwork and perfectly synchronized attacks.

With Natasha to pinned to the edge of the building fifty stories in the air and a knife pressed roughly to her throat and nowhere to go, the American hissed through his broken arm and cracked teeth, "You're done, Black Widow."

She was bleeding inside and out, her ribs definitely broken, both shoulders dislocated and a killer concussion that would only last so long before the lack of oxygen to the brain finally finished her. He had pulled every dirty trick she knew, could see through every bit of stealth or advantage she had perfected her whole life, and could predict her so well it felt like he was staring into her soul. She couldn't lift her legs and wouldn't have been able to stand if she tried.

She was at the end.

Romanoff, however, wasn't about to make it easy and the bastard finishing the job was not an option even if death was guaranteed. With her toes barely within a centimeter of the lethal barrel, she strained her foot with the little energy she had left to knock over the acid and spilled it onto the сволочь and last corpse.

Simultaneously reaching for her grappling hook in her belt, she nearly choked against the blade as it clambered to her chest. With the last of her strength, she launched herself off the roof.

As she was mid-air and glanced back down, the look on the American's face was both shock.

That was the first and only time the Amazing Hawkeye would assume  _ anything _ about the Black Widow.

But there was something stronger; a promise; the promise in his blue eyes that they  _ would _ meet again.

When the Black Widow would return to her handlers, she would omit the detail of a loose end and an assassin almost beating her.

The next she would see the American spy was about six months later. It was simple, taking a short trip Moscow for a conference, luring a traitorous businessman to a hotel with the promise of quick sex and bullet through his skull. She was aware he had security, five men all twice her size, tense shoulders and brawny, but getting past them had been a breeze; she had bit her lip and made quick work of gauging their eyeballs and using her silencer effectively, finally striding into his private hotel room. With long eyelashes fluttering, the cover of a young journalist and a low cut dress with a little too much room in her fur coat for a glock 19 was foolproof and thorough.

The изменник had been on top of her body with a leer when she shot him. Without fingerprints, surveillance cameras suddenly going dark due to a power outage and no one witnessing a thing, she thought her mission was over.

She hadn't expected a 43 being held straight to her left temple and the heavy weight of an arm pinning her throat as she began to rise from the bed after staging his suicide. The room had been empty, or so she thought, just as she noticed it of the corner of her eye that the balcony door was barely ajar.

She slowly turned her head 90°against the to meet the eyes of her attacker; there was the American from six months ago, with something resolute, cunning and almost… thoughtful.

It was no good; she couldn't make the slightest twitch without him noticing and his grip on the gun was too secure. She couldn't get out of this.

She had learned about the American; expert marksman, sharpshooter and aviator, the best eyes out there that many believe him to be enhanced. With a high endurance threshold, acrobatic skills as natural as breathing and a consquestive success rate on missions, he's one of the biggest threats to date; not just to the KGB but anyone out there that's an enemy of the wrong person. He's unparalleled to anyone and after learning how close she was to dying it's the closest feeling 'Tasha has had to being afraid. With a degree of deafness and a penchant for justice, if there's one thing Natasha had learned, it was that he never missed.

She waited for the gunshot to ring to; she had slipped away once before and he wasn't about to let that happen again.

Clint Barton, the Amazing Hawkeye, had been properly sent to kill her this time; that day, he was ordered by the American agency of S.H.I.E.L.D. as she posed an international terrorism threat across UN moderated borders; instead, he made a different call.

Natasha Romanoff's job is to jump to conclusions within half a heartbeat; who can blame her for being wrong about Clint Barton that day?

It's just surprising that she was wrong once again ten years later.

\------

She hadn't meant to fall. Love wasn’t something that was taught in the Red Room but it came so naturally.

It gradually turned from Barton being the only person she could ever trust as an agent and partner to something  _ more _ . She was convinced everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. was out to kill her and that her freedom would be pulled from underneath her feet at any given moment. She had gotten into too many altercations with other innocent employees simply glancing at her and her attempting to strangle them on the cafeteria. Her own bed wasn't hers and she felt lost and alone, like the child she left behind in Russia.

If Clint hadn't been by her side for those first few years, she loathes to think about where she'd be now.

The gesture of his signature jovial smirk leaving her at ease and familiarity had somehow turned into a flurry of panic and the need to rinse her face with water to combat the red flush across her cheeks. Be it the amusedly perched eyebrow he would raise at her during debriefings, the low bob in his Adam's apple when his morning voice was husky or the orderly chaotic choreography of his fingers behind his bow, any small gesture began to cause Natasha to be lost in her thoughts. And his laugh went unexpectedly from making her roll her eyes in contempt or exasperation to the thoughts of devouring the melodic sounds as he would joke after a mission with hers, cozied in a safehouse while they made love in between the bedsheets.

God, ten years later and Natasha would think she'd be easier to steamroll over like cheap asphalt.

\-------------

She can't exactly pinpoint one moment where it started but she can tell herself when she truly realized how fucked she was.

It was 2006 in Drammen after a mission. Their internal takedown of a Russian oligarch's fraud operation had gone subpar; it involved escrow accounts, hacking into his company's software and publically leaking the records of the CEO's corruption, while wire transferring all the money through his twenty fake companies in seventeen different countries and getting out of the system without a trace.

They were resting at a hotel as Natasha towel dried her hair. The rest of the operation would be a mess from the aftermath of today but not impossible. They could have been busted at any time and had to go on-the-run within a trigger pull.

The light in the late hours of the night was obscure, blackened midnight glittering through the open blinds. There was dripping faucet somewhere on their floor letting out a steady rhythm of neglect a few rooms away and the sounds of the beds creaking a story below. Natasha could smell nicotine from the hallways inside their room littered and the thick air reeking with rotten trash stifled with cheap air freshener.

The ends of her red hair dripped slowly as dye stained the towel. Clint was drunk. It wasn't the first time she had seen him so intoxicated but she couldn't pinpoint why he was so wound up.

"Those Russkie bastards could break in any minute now, surround our asses and you'd be leave me here in your getaway, you traitor." He slurred out.

" _ I  _ am one of those Russkie bastards, Barton. But I wouldn't leave you. I'm trying out the whole hero thing, remember? " Natasha snarked back without much thought.

By the time she had finished finger combing through her split ends, she actually  _ saw  _ Clint as she turned to look at him on the shitty, stained queen-sized mattress.

There was a melancholy in his blue eyes and something forlorn. He was staring at his fingers and mumbling under his breath something about "goddamn frostbite".

He was an idiot, of course, and had only packed a pair of S.H.I.E.L.D. issued pyjamas that were paper thin aside from his combat gear and civilian disguises. His teeth quietly chattered as she could see the sharp muscles in his shoulders jerk.

In that moment, instead of teasing and laying into him for his negligence as a fucking  _ spy _ , all she wanted to do was tuck him into bed at  _ home _ and keep him safe, somewhere, anywhere but here. This shithole where they were treading water with the takedown, the reality that they could be ambushed at any moment and killed for messing with corrupt police and elitists, and no goddamn food or heat.

She had walked over, ghosting her fingers and hesitating for a brief moment before plucking the beer bottle out of Barton's hands. She leaned over before he could protest, pulled the blanket over his chest up to his collarbone, positioned his head gently on the pillow with barely any stuffing left and finally pushed him in a fleeting attempt to preserve any warmth from the busted heating rig.

Just as she pivoted to turn off the side table lamp and crash on the couch, because it was Clints turn for a decent night's sleep, he grabbed her tiny waist and pulled her onto the bed. It was so sudden, late in the night and bone-weary, and even though she could have reacted, she didn't. He cradled her cheekbones, eyelashes blinking against her forehead and noses pressed together, and his low voice breathed out her demise.

"My hero, 'Tasha." He slurred nearly incomprehensible but his eyes were strong with  _ something,  _ something treasured. He said her name like a prayer with a tone she hadn't heard before. He sounded like he had one the lottery when he realized it was her, really her, in front of him on this shitty mission gone off the rails.

He had quickly let her go before she could utter a noise and shut his eyes before a snore drowned out the pounding hail on the window panes.

She sat there on the other side of the mattress for a good half an hour, contemplating, almost crying and then  _ realizing _ how despairingly she couldn't think of anyone else the same way she did her teammate.

For an ex-spy who was made to be an emotionless and calculating Soviet intel machine, she could barely get a grip on her composure that night.

They never talked about it after and shes 99% sure Clint has forgotten anything past his third beer of that night but it's all what Natasha thinks about when she tries to convince herself she's not absolutely whipped. She could chalk it up to them being partners at S.H.I.E.L.D. or just decent friends but it stirred something inside her wretched little soul.

It was more so than anything what Clint was thinking only of her before he passed out that night that still burns inside her.

And foolishly, it was enough. Enough of something, albeit so small, to give her hope.

Hope. That's what's been her downfall since day one, hadn't it?

\-----------

After the Battle of New York, it's difficult to cope with the distance between her and Clint.

Losing him to Loki's brainwashing hit her square in the chest; his eyes were so absent as he tried to kill her and nearly succeeded. It was the first time she's been terrified that something she had naively loved was gone for good.

She never wants to lose him again and they keep each other close. She just wishes Clint could see how much  _ closer  _ they could be.

All of them have retrospectively moved into the tower. Having a billionaire offer to foot the bill, no matter how arrogant and self-righteous, isn't an offer to refuse. Thor visits often while on Earth, Bruce binges with Tony in their lab and Steve stays in Washington for weeks at a time near the Triskelion. Clint's floor is exactly 78 steps above using the stairwell, a fifteen second elevator ride courtesy of JARVIS and a two minute climb through the air vents, and yet it feels like she's planets away.

She does missions for S.H.I.E.L.D. but still tunes her focus to Avenger level threats. It keeps her closer to her new found family and away from the memories of her deeds for the KGB.

No good deed goes unpunished, indeed; every action that makes her feel lighter and almost like a hero is lined with the bodies and blood of Natalia Alianova Romanova.

Clint, Bruce and Tony are playing rounds of some гриб гоночный game on a large screen, eyebrows drawn in concentration as they shove at each other.

It's another day and they're still not perfect as Avengers. They've all got their flaws what with Tony and his arrogance, Clint's stubborn attitude, Bruce constantly in fear of losing his temper, Steve still adapting to the new century, and Natasha with her… trust issues. 

They're dysfunctional, yes. Natasha has considered killing every individual member after sparring or a particularly nasty fight more than once, particularly Stark with a nerve agent when he underestimates her 'super secret Bond skills'.

Missions together aren't what she'd consider organized or a well oiled machine; nevertheless, they save the world time and time again because they're the only ones that can. It's not the Avengers' mission to be perfect together when the world's chaos has boiled over into mayhem.

But this is her family and home now. She has somewhere she belongs and people she can turn to even if the world crumbles into dust around her.

"You sure this is okay for your anger issues, doc?" Tony inquires, throwing a couple chips from the bowl beside him into Bruce's line of sight in an attempt to distract him. Banner proceeds to grumble incoherently with his focus on the screen.

"This is not- what the fuck, Stark?! You just goddamn bumped me down to last place!" Clint cries hysterically.

He's so childish and petty. Out of the corner of her eye and under her lashes, she can't help but adore him.

Natasha's on a sofa chair watching bemusedly as she skims through files displayed on a holographic screen in front of her. She hears footsteps with heavy boots before anyone, except maybe Clint, and knows it's Rogers before her eyes pass over him.

He nods with a small smile at her in greeting, dressed in a cotton shirt and leather jacket perched over.

"Fury wants to speak with you, Romanoff." Steve's eyebrows are stern with his Captain America voice present and Clint begins to push his controller away when Rogers interrupts, "Just Agent Romanoff."

"Oooh, is someone getting sent to the principal's office? Detention after class?" Clint inquires, shortly followed by a groan of defeat as he falls off the ledge of the race track on screen.

She can tell that his sarcasm a front, however. His left hand goes through his hair and she notices him motion off to the side in sign language.

_ Do you want me to come? _

She gives a curt shake in denial. They're thinking the same thing; it's rare that they're on missions without each other and almost ever debriefing they do is together. Classified has ceased to mean much to them anymore with the years and secrets shed between the two spies. It's strange that Fury is calling her in unless it's serious. It makes her… anxious to say the least.

"It could just be another low-level threat. Remember those HYDRA  bombings we dealt with last month? You're probably just leading a level 4 unit." Banner replies shrugging his shoulders, sensing the worry, and wins the race in first place as Stark whines and falls back onto the sofa.

"Are you trying to escape us?" Clint gasps, exaggerated faux surprise morphing into an expression with something down right maniacal. "I'm pretty sure we branded your ass a few months ago with a tattoo of Stark's face to show up on command. Little Miss Muffet, you won't be able to stay covert against your marks with that masterpiece."

'Tasha points a single manicured fingernail at him and dangerously warns, "Watch it, ястреб, or you might end up with  _ more  _ than just cobwebs in your air vents."

"One more word out of you, Barton, and your balls won't be the only thing we can't find!" Tony cackles before starting another round.

As she strides past her teammates, she can hear Bruce and Steve snicker as Clint gulps audibly. Instead of worry biting at her nerves, it's just the tide of calmness and familiarity.

Yeah, this is her home, that's for sure.

\-----------

The motorbike ride in Manhattan traffic is typical; overbearingly loud and with mind-numbingly aggressive drivers screaming and flipping each other off.

She's called into Fury's office as soon as she gets there. Agents mill around and haphazardly glance at in surprise her in the corridors before diverting their eyes. Fury gives a standard mission update for her last HYDRA base takedown with Clint but something feels different. Nick is eyeing her in some type of way, analytical and foreshadowing, and it feels like he's staring into the garnet in her soul.

She has her secrets and baggage but there's nothing off the top of her head that should warrant the judgement she feels from Fury's gaze. She hates the tension and unasked questions lingering in the air.

"Something amiss, Agent Romanoff?" There's a cocky and almost mocking tone to the director's question and he's just waiting for her to take the bait.

But, then again, she's never been one for flowery language or beating around the bush.

"Is there a reason Agent Barton isn't here, Director?" She inquires bluntly.

Nick doesn't so much as react as his stare remains scrutinizing and unwavering. "It's come to my attention that there's a matter I can no longer ignore. Sit."

She's still standing in front of his desk and she hates this. If she's being kicked from the team or S.H.I.E.L.D., she doesn't need comforting or coddling. She can and will be professional when it comes to not letting her emotions control her.

"I'd rather stand."

"And I'd rather be in Bora Bora than cleaning up after an attempted HYDRA  bombing . Sit in the damn chair, Natasha." Fury isn't taking his presumptions lightly today, it seems.

Reluctantly, she sits and she can feel the nervous energy jumping through her veins. She keeps her chin pointed straight at Nick and eyes boring into his eyepatch, ready for fight or flight.

"I'm no fool, Romanoff. It's become clear to me that you have developed an… unrequited attachment to Agent Barton beyond S.H.I.E.L.D.'s partner parameters."

She freezes, in the way she was taught twenty years ago in a facility never to, as panic settles in to her gut and she feels her lungs become the weight of Mjolnir.

She's been careful the entirety of her time at S.H.I.E.L.D. and Fury knows that. She nearly choked out anyone who so much as glanced at her the wrong way the first year staying at S.H.I.E.L.D. From bolting her temporary quarter's shut or hoarding food and weapons under her pillow for months, she's been borderline prepared for the world to turn on her. Never in a million years would she have thought she would have fucked up this bag.

"I assume you and Agent Barton have not discussed this?"

Romanoff precedes to say nothing and gaze with the vehemence of a lion hunting its prey. Fury, ever the sadist, slightly upturns his grimace.

"I would advise stick to your agency protocols and remaining professional throughout this difficult time i-"

"Do not start that shit with me, Nick."

The director finally breaks his intensity and leans back into his chair as he chuckles. It's good to know that he has no humility or pity on her situation, the proof that the fucker is no percentage of human. He's laughing at her and she hates everything.

She knows her face is burning so red in shame and embarrassment that she probably looks like she's just come in from a brutal blizzard in St. Petersburg.

"I don't, wh-" It's rare that she's at this far of a loss for words. "How?"

She hasn't told anyone. There's nothing on her files about dependency or preference to Barton, she's made sure. She lets her guard down at home in the tower or unplugged privacy, letting herself be comfortable staring and falling for Clint more each day; even then, her team will solely chalk it up to her being paranoid or just herself. They've learned that she's not all that expressive even when she's comfortable from her years of trauma and missions.

Clint has always been an anchor and the team has never questioned that. She supposes in hindsight that it was only a matter of time before someone decided to take a closer look at her behind the perfect glass.

"I've got both my eyes on everything, Romanoff."

She has never considered killing Nicholas J. Fury more than now.

He pauses for a moment before letting a  _ look _ seep into his eyes and straightens his posture, waiting for something.

Her body is still in shock and, goddammit, her director knows she's compromised. She may work for S.H.I.E.L.D. but she's far from trusting or having full faith in people with agendas. She shouldn't be surprised anymore but it still makes her feel vulnerable that she's see-through to Fury.

It dawns on her that this is worse than she expected.

"Should I be concerned about this piece of information going anywhere, Nick?" She spits out panicky and covering it immediately with a bitter glare. She genuinely trusts Nick with her life but this… this is something she barely trusts with herself.

The director just rolls his eyes. "Romanoff, contrary to popular belief, I am nice. No one seems to believe me on that but I assure you; no one will know."

She knows he can see the exact moment that relief sink into her bones and her wild hysteria plateaus.

"Will this…  _ crush _ impede on your performance as an Avenger or your duties to S.H.I.E.L.D.?" Fury raises his only visible eyebrow.

Mortified and still taken aback from the being humiliated like this, she grinds her teeth before sharply letting out monotonously, "No, sir."

As Nick dismisses her, he calls out to her as she plans his death and disposal of his body.

"Romanoff?” She turns to face Nick. “I think you'll have more luck with this predicament than you think. I'm usually right about these sorts of things."

When she leaves S.H.I.E.L.D's headquarters in New York City, Romanoff stalks out the doors with a murderous gaze so fierce that no one dares come within a few feet of her.


	2. 2.

It's the next day when she notices that something unusual; it's the cataclysm, the very event that inspires hope, like a moth to a flame, seducing and all too alluring.

She does a check on her teammates through J.A.R.V.I.S. every week, usually overlooking most recent files, spending habits and location patterns. She may not be as tech savvy as Stark but it's on her own private server and J.A.R.V.I.S. has assured her that only she has access to it. Call it paranoia or stalkerish but she's never outgrown her spy nature and it's something she doesn't even notice she's doing most of the time.

In truth, she's afraid of losing them; be it brainwash or a battle gone wrong, it's her natural gut instinct to keep surveillance on the people previous to her.

On his credit card, Nat notices that Clint orders a dress.

The dress is black, figure hugging and designer. The aforementioned and pair of heels are exactly her size - the type of measurements that only Stark has for her combat gear and is custom made by the brand. 

There's a press event that none of the team has volunteered in less than twenty-four hours. It's a simple socializing in the name of charity that the PR team thinks will look good for their overall image and a way to smoochze with the fry rich for donations and good relations.

They've all been avoiding talking to Ms. Potts or Agent Hill about it. Natasha knows she can disappear when the inevitable sacrifice of two teammates begins and the wolves of the top one percent eat them alive.

The reservation isn't far from where the hotel is and it suddenly hits 'Tasha like a ton of bricks.

In all the years she's loved Clint, she's never even flirted with the idea that he could ever love her back. But this very small thing that could blow up in her face if she's wrong  _ tugs _ at her chest and has her practically gasping for air as she deluded herself in this  _ hope. _

But she can- Fuck, she just can't hope for something like this and have it bite her in the ass if she's wrong. 

And suddenly, she sees it; she doesn't see every sin she's committed as S.H.I.E.L.D. or the KGB when she closes her eyes; she can't remember any of the many reasons she loses sleep at night; all she can she is Clint.

She thinks back to 2006. To Florence. Even all the way back to Bursa.

She needs to stop her insecurities from controlling her. She needs the Demantoid from half a decade ago to give her strength.

"God, get a hold of yourself, Widow." She whispers to herself.

The dress arrives outside her room the following morning in a large black box with a note attached.

In Clint's messy chicken scratch, she can read the message scrawled next to the RSVP of their names and the event's address,  _ 'Back entrance of the Tower at 7:00 P.M.?' _

The dress is exactly the same as she saw but it feels so real to see it in front of her along with a pair of heels.

She feels like Cinderella, if Cinderella is also a deadly ex-assassin prepared to dismantle an empire or gouge everyone's eyeballs out at any moment.

And, yet, she still hesitates.

She should go talk to Clint; just to be sure.

"Someone's in a good mood. What, did any of your commie comrades assassinate a president?" Tony jabs as she passes by him quickly in the communal kitchen.

Not even Stark's jovial teasing can irritate her now.

She finds Clint alone on the couch eating from a bag of chips and watching some infomercial channel.

"Please tell me you're not here to set me on fire or some shit." Clint peers at her from the corner of his eye, although she can see nervousness in his posture.

She tries to stay casual and calm even though her heartbeat is drowning out every ounce of silence between them. She pulls the invitation card out from the pocket and raises her eyebrows.

"Why didn't you just ask me earlier? I would have said yes."

Clint looks slightly surprised. "I was afraid you'd actually cut my fingers off for dragging your ass to one of those snobby get togethers."

She laughs easily because, she guesses, it really is that simple. It sounds like something she would normally do.

"Fair point, Barton. I'll see you at 7:00, right? No getting yourself out of this now." The question holds so much weight as she stares into Barton's eyes, hoping he can't see how her fucking soul in on the line.

Clint finally looks up, a gleam in his eyes and his smile perfectly crooked, while he replies. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, Romanoff."

\--------

The lead up to that evening is haze of panic and emotions she's never reserved for herself. She's been taught many things; seduction, charm, and even how to fake love on a mark.

She's never learned how to be genuine with any of it though. It's daunting to be so out of a skill that she's long perfected.

It takes her hours to strategize and define up a foolproof plan. Stick close to him the entire night, get dinner, turn on her goddamn emotions correctly for once, dinner at that expensive Spanish place a short drive away, and find a way to keep the only person she's ever loved truly around. Even if this is just a date to Clint, she has to  _ tell  _ him. It crushes her ribs a little when she realizes exactly how terrifying the very motion is.

Because Clint has always been able to see through her, blunt and uncensored in response to her bullshit. She's always been afraid for him to see her, as she truly is, 

She calls Capricieux pays the security deposit for 11P.M. The restaurant is more up Stark's alley, five star, reservation waiting list booked years in advance and so expensive, 'Tasha know she could buy a new bike on the outskirts of Moscow for the price for a glass of wine, but she's pulling out all the stops for this one.

Barton is true to his word and at the gate at 7:00. One of Stark's flashy red convertibles are parked out of view of the press and Manhattan's endlessly wandering strangers.

As Natasha steps out and glances at Clint, she feels like she could fall in love with him all over again. 

He cleans up damn well; it's not the first time she's seen him in a suit and tie but it feels like it. As uncomfortable as she knows he is dressed up, the navy only seems to enhance his clean shaven, ashy brown hair, and the restless youth in his eyes.

His eyes once over Natasha as he widely grins and holds out his elbow for her to take.

Demantoid garnets promote self-confidence and skyrocket self-esteem to those who rely too much on the approval and permission of others.

She thinks that maybe, just maybe, that her soul and stone will be enough.

\---------

And that's when the Demantoid shattersm

She turns to the bartender as he hands her two martinis.

She can feel every thought she's had about him from the past ten years rattle around, every ounce of charm she's perfected shake and every emotion she's indulged in a little too far pump through her veins.

All she can see is him, all she's ever known, all she's ever trusted…

It makes her dizzy and nauseous and all the more in love with him.

In the maybe thirty seconds she's turned away from him, her stomach drops. She chalks it up to the nerves.

She'll tell him, tonight, that she's in love with him. Everything she's tried to repress,

"Nat!" She hears Clint with excitement in his voice and she knows his dimples are showing. She through her nose quickly. She smiles, for what feels like the first time in her life, a genuine smile blossom on her face.

It's only when she turns around that she realizes how the illusion, fucking  _ hope _ , she's been poisoned with has corrupted her every sense.

Wrapped around Clint's arm and leaning into his chest,  _ way  _ too close into his personal space, she  _ knows _ , is a smiling face. The blonde woman is wearing a red dress, higher heels than 'Tasha, and a plasticky smile that would normally be screaming red flags if she didn't feel like she was going to pass out.

"Hey, Nat! Thanks for coming, this is Laura. We're headed out for dinner. Can you take over and cover for the donation pool?"

There's a jittery excitement to his chest and an awkward silence in the air.

Her heart feels like it's disappeared, numb and broken. She always thought that when she'd go out, it'd be with a bang. She never anticipates in all her years that it would be with the simple  _ whoosh _ of air being sucked from her lungs.

She wants to run and hide or move or do something but her body won't connect to her mind, goddamnit.

She barely manages out a nod of agreement just as Laura presses her lips to his in a gesture of seduction and begins to lead him away. 

Clint barely so much as glances at Natasha, his focus undivided and fucking stars in his eyes.

She should've never opened Pandora's box and let her emotions spiral into fantasies. She should have never been so stupidly childish.

She's a coward, she thinks, a coward and a fool who can barely look at herself in the mirror, as she all but bolts out of the convention centre as fast as she can.

\-------

When Natasha gets back to the Tower, her body flies on autopilot taking her to the communal kitchen and pours herself some moonshine she's stashed inside a remote controller. When she catches up and realizes where she is, all she can see is  _ him _ and his smile at that woman, an unfamiliar expression on his face of adoration she had hoped would always be aimed at her.

She's just about at her end and exhaustedly wonders if crying would make her emotions normal. If anything would make her normal.

She's so stupid. For thinking, for feeling, for pretending she could ever be more than the dehumanized weapon she was made to be.

"Nat?" She hasn't even noticed Steve on the couch, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes having fallen asleep. "Hey, I thought you went out with Clint."

He can't see her face in the barely lit room and she's glad as she gets up and walks away briskly, not wanting to fall apart in front of her team's leader.

She grabs the rest of the bottle and locks herself in her room for the rest of the night, drowning the knocks on her door out. They're not from the only one she's ever willingly sought out.

Is this how she dies? Not from a nerve agent or aliens just unfiltered humiliation from a stupid selfish desires that went too far? 

\--------

Clint goes on a date with Laura the next weekend. And the next. And the next.

She picks herself up after that night, spending as much time as she can training at S.H.I.E.L.D. or doing low stakes missions.

It doesn't soothe the hollowness in her chest that echoes at night.

Not for the first (nor what she assumes will be the last) time, Natasha Romanoff remembers what true pain is.

She doesn't mean physical pain, because, yes, she is annoyingly human and breakable. She means the emotional agony that tears her heart out from her chest and uses a chainsaw on it. It's the plummeting feeling in her stomach or the empty ache of something missing that she can never quite grasp.

The Red Room has taught her that pain is not relevant. Pain is a tool to procrastinate goals and targets. That nothing can come between her and her mark, especially this flimsy excuse for an emotion. She has to know how to compartmentalize that pain and to put in a box and throw away the key; it's not so much a self preservation skill as it is a life-or-death prerequisite for the lifestyle. Pain isn't a choice. It's callous, cold and unwavering and she hates it. It tends to destroy someone with a conscious or morals but she makes the decision to not let it do more damage than the inevitable: it's the only mantra that's got her this far and made her out of the KGB alive.

Everything she loves is tainted by pain. That's why she doesn't love.

It's not easy to turn her emotions completely off but it’s her only choice sometimes. It's taken years of espionage and failures to keep her composure together and perfect every arched eyebrow or exhale for air. If she's being honest, right now, she's the furthest thing from put together.

Nat already done her extensive background checks right after the shock of fait accompli settled in. She's a S.H.I.E.L.D. employee that has restricted access, younger than Barton with no criminal record and a standard middle class American Dream suburban upbringing with a master's in national defense.

She's everything Natasha could never be, never comparable to the Demonoid she treasures; normal and able to properly love someone.

**\-----------**

The sudden shift is apparent; Clint is cheerier on their missions and that there's a new undetectable light in his eyes at the mention of getting back home from Romania or Morocco, the same excruciating and plummeting feeling that whirls in her gut. 

It. Fucking. Stings.

Natasha grits her teeth and smiles, a front of feigned surprise when Clint talks about Laura and even puts on a convincing bravado of mutual happiness as if her heart wasn't already broken into a million glass shards and sand grains.

When Clint brings her around the tower for the first time, Natasha feels lonelier than her first year at S.H.I.E.L.D. There's no longer a warmth or familiarity of home when she's around, only ice freezing over everywhere Natasha once felt at ease. Every bathroom tile, every scratch in the wall, and every spoon in the drawer, stolen from her fingertips while she's still sat there staring in silence.

Laura is beautiful and charismatic and smiles at Nat's best friend in a way that makes her want to gouge out her eyes so the Avenger never has to see Clint with hearts in his eyes ever again. Every teammate seems to admire and respect her, which just makes it harder for Natasha to look at herself in the mirror.

The blonde is S.H.I.E.L.D. but acts a bit naive, with a clueless smile when Stark talks about nanotechnology or when Thor speaks of Jotunheim. She flutters her eyelashes, bites her lip, and laughs at every joke anytime the others laugh. Even Banner begins to smile confidently around her instead of shrugging into himself or escaping to a lab, a feat that took Natasha months to crack. She's witty, with perfectly toned comebacks to match the air of the tower.

In heated banter where Thor claims that no one is worthy enough to hold Mjolnir, Laura quips back smoothly, "Really? That hammer seems like it's holding  _ you _ up more, Thor."

When Clint's obnoxious, belly laugh follows, Natasha's torn between wanting to gauge her eyes out and crawling into the darkest corner of the world and shriveling up into nothingness.

Things change that night.

Laura has been over four other times, staying close to Rogers, Mr. Loves Everyone except Nazis, and Thor, the God of charm, apparently, the whole night. Clint is drinking and laughing as ‘Tasha keepa to the edges of the room and sips her flash full of Russian vodka. She hears Clint reference the story about him and her in Budapest and how he couldn't have made it out alive without her.

The team loves her and Natasha supposes that she'll have to live in this hellscape of Clint loving someone else in front of her for the rest of her goddamn life until she dies from hypothermia from the cold inside her.

So, even though she's relatively certain Laura doesn't know what secrets she keeps, it unsettles Natasha when Laura appears next to her. She leans in to whisper something as they stand next to each other at Stark's Tower with the rest of the team.

Clint and her are set for a mission the next day in California; there's a mole working for HYDRA in some government role. The spy is fluent in twenty languages, skilled at hand-to-hand combat and a ghost story. If they can't find them tomorrow, at least they'll find one of their superiors and as much Intel as possible 

Stark is boasting about how well practical the Iron Man suit would be, though Bruce is shaking his head and arguing about the lack of covertness.

"I don't think you're exactly the epitome of subtly, Brucie." Stark says, slinging an arm around a blushing Banner's shoulders and poking at a vein on his neck.

The cushion next to her sinks down and Laura smiles a little too brightly.

"Nervous for tomorrow?" Laura is a little too close for Natasha's liking but she won't flinch at the deliberate chance to make her insecurities rise.

"Of course not." Natasha says nonchalantly and already prepared to rip out her throat with her teeth. She's been an agent for most of her life and it's a pretty standard bust. 

"It just seems like it wouldn't be a good idea. With how you were trained and all, I mean. Don't you think it hits a little too close to home?" Natasha stills from sipping her flask at the mention of her past and Laura's choice of words.

Everything inside her is screaming  _ danger  _ but she's not about to let the new arm candy of her teammate question her skill.

The Avengers is all she has at times; what with the blood she's shed and the lives she's ruined, if she stops for even a second and doubts what she's doing, if it's worth it or if it's right and if, at the end of the day, saving innocent people isn't enough to ease her moral guilt, she knows she has nothing. Being an Avenger, it's the only thing she believes in anymore.

That she's a hero and that it's the most she can do to atone for her sins.

She recovers as soon as possible. "I'm a professional. I'm capable of more than you think."

"Professional, huh?" Laura huffs out bemusedly. "I don't consider your  _ relationship _ with certain teammates professional, Agent Romanoff."

And  _ that _ has Natasha's composure apart as he brain simultaneously combusts.

“Are you sure you're good to go for tomorrow?" Laura's tone is all sugary sweet in its quietness while the grip on her arm tightens like a tourniquet. "I would hate for you to fuck things up." The maliciousness in her sneer is obvious and her posture screams  _ abort  _ as Natasha leans back in anxiety and the impulse to run.

It would never normally scare her if someone knew she was compromised. She's been put in this predicament on missions where it's down to her to stay collected and make sure her secret  _ stays  _ a secret at any cost necessary. But the whole evening she's been on edge and Laura knows. 

This is some hellish purgatory and Laura has figured out how easy it could be for Natasha to just kiss Clint and ruin everything between the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. and how fucked up she is with herself and now with Cl-

She knows, she knows, she knows, she knows, sh-

"I'm just looking out for you, girl to girl. Good luck tomorrow, Romanoff."

For a brief second, when everyone's eyes are on Clint and Tony's dance off in the center of the communal area, Laura's charming facade flickers off and into a dark glower with smugness in her eyes and danger in her features. Before she can so much as  _ breathe _ , the look is gone and Laura is waltzing into her boyfriend's arms for a dance.

Natasha breathes out shakily and leans back into the couch, unkempt and disoriented.

Well, she guesses Laura was a lot more intelligent than she originally thought. 

She's always going to be fucked up from the Red Room and Clint knows she has trust issues. She's always going to want a relationship and look at him like he personally gave her the sun.

But it will never feel like she's enough; she's been in pain her whole life and it kills her every time she looks in the mirror and sees the hundreds of faces she's killed.

Now, she can't even train or go on a goddamn mission without crumbling to pieces.

The fact that Laura knows all this because Barton most likely told her, makes Nat feel sick. She promptly excuses herself under Bruce's concerned gaze and throws up in a bathroom toilet one floor away from the team.

It's genuinely nauseatingly sugar sweet, fucking perfect and slightly ironic that the only person she's ever loved could never love her. Star crossed lovers or some bullshit.

She makes a motion to flee, coming back downstairs and grabbing a tray of empty glasses to throw away, but not before Clint catches by the arm and tugs her into the shadows of the communal area as Tony begins to share an exaggerated story about the Battle of New York.

“So?” There's a hopeful tone to the low buzz of his voice and she wants to cry.

Without a reaction on her face, she drones in response, “What, Barton?”

There's a shine in his eyes she hasn't seen before as he rolls them and replies, “She knows you and I are partners. She's waiting on you to have some girl talk. You're my best friend, ‘Tasha.”

There's a hushed whisper in her name, like it's a secret, but it pulls at heart; it's the way he says her name; the way that he could tell her to jump off a cliff preceded by her doing it happily. Additionally, there's the impaling of her stomach as she hears him under the words 'best friend'.

Best friend. It  _ hurts _ . She knows it's childish to say but she feels so lost. Even when she had nothing, Clint was there. When she was lost in a darkened cave of unknown and learning to adapt to the new world of S.H.I.E.L.D., he was there with a map and a light to guide her. Now, she feels like she's walking blindly on a tightrope.

"I'm not much for conversation." Natasha states irritatedly and shrugs Barton off.

Clint doesn't let her go, moving in front of her with an upset twinge to his face. “She's kind of having a crisis over the Black Widow not liking her, Nat."

Is that all she is to him? The Black Widow? A Soviet machine without emotions made for destruction and havoc? Is it all she ever was? Never even considered in a loving light, just another teammate to add to another agenda?

"I like her." 'Tasha lies brazenly while feeling like she can barely breathe.

Clint fixes her with a  _ yeah, right  _ look.

After a beat, she sighs, because of fucking course Clint can see right through her, especially right now while a she's flailing and  _ scared _ . "I just don't  _ know _ her and it's kind of strange how quickly the team just welcomed her in, you know? None of us are exactly known for being the most welcoming."

Clint waits and she can see the question in his eyes, the ones she's dreamed of drowning in for years; a friend looking for approval and another lost soul hoping for acceptance.

The garnet in her soul won't let her be petty and say fuck; dematoid is stubborn, it gives one the strength and power to overcome their challenges and come out of them stronger and better.

It's all the can cling to now.

“She seems decent. I'm happy for you.” She bluffs with a feigned sort of disinterest. It similar to drowning in a desert, long and exhausting, worn out and not even near the end as she suffocates slowly.

His eyes narrow and she knows he thinks something is off about her tone or demeanor. “Decent?“ Clint scoffs, a toying smile sprouting a simple. “I guess you're right. No one could  _ ever  _ be enough for  _ the _ Amazing Hawkeye.”

She has to force out a sound of exasperation as she gives him a quick hug. His expression settles back into its usual joy. She can smell his cologne and feel the calluses on his hand near her shoulder. His smile is blinding and brilliant, white teeth and a hint of his signature crooked smile he usually only reserves for her.

But nothing about him is hers anymore. Maybe it never was.

Of course, he could never love her. She's always known that but to hear it said right to her fucking face cuts so deeply into her heart that she wants to yank it out and set it on fire. She wants to bury the ashes or send them out into the East River and run, run as fast and as far as she can so she doesn't have to look at the shards of her broken heart any longer.

\-------

Hours later, she calls Hill and tells her that she and Rogers will take the mission and get it done in half the time.

They finish manage to secure one of the superiors and kill the rest of the HYDRA operatives.

As Steve glances at her cautiously on the mission and narrows his eyes as she debriefs Fury and Hill, she can't help but feel like she's betraying herself in the worst way.

\---------

She goes to every team night, despite Laura's presence, and even spars with him before conveniently being called to S.H.I.E.L.D. before she can focus too intently on his toned chest and the way his arms flex when anticipating her next move.

She really should threaten Laura. She's wedged a wedge in the team within such a short period of time and its endangering her place as an Avenger.

Okay, maybe she's overreacting but she's the fucking Black Widow for a reason.

But he's happy, and although it drains every drop of restraint she's exercised throughout the years, she forces herself to grit her teeth and bear it.

It's only when Clint tells Laura, "I adore you" quietly during a horror movie on team night that she cracks and feels her sense of herself begin to fall apart.

\---------

“‘Tasha.” Clint looking around with his bow and arrow aimed, as they crouch perched overhead on the pipelines of a rundown laboratory. Iron Man's repulsors and Mjolnir's spinning can be heard as they wait for Cap's signal.

It's an Avengers mission; human experimenting, mad scientists, and the usual dose of mediocre villain monologues. It's barely memorable but she soaks in as much of her teammate as she can before she inevitably has to confront the reality of his love again.

Truth be told, he was never hers. She had staked an unstable claim on someone that could never see her longing. She might as well have pinned a sniper on a cloud of smoke, there one minute, gone the next.

"There's something here, I swear." She curses out, eyes straining to find something on these goddamn bombings.

Seventeen heavily armed men are guarding four chambers of human test subjects. There's one man is glowing test tube-like cell, overly muscular and pale, as he bangs his head against the glass. There's a photograph she can make out near the observation table with a little girl, adorned with red hair and in a pink dress, a circle drawn around her head. Across the room is a man with metal attached to him in a square box, almost like an armour he can't escape as electric sparks erupt out of his chestplate. The other two are out of her eyesight as she takes account of what she assumes are the last of their personal belongings; photo books, a torn up pair of Adidas shoes, and some sleeping bags.

Clint's eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, barely visible in the pitch black darkness, and his eyes, adept and they expertly scan below, keep her from in his peripheral vision.

"Tasha." He repeats.

The way her heart jumps at Clint saying her name with worry and fond exasperation nearly knocks her off the piping. It's reminiscent of the look she's tried so hard to forget in Drammen.

“Care to share with the class, Barton?”

“Just wondering if you should get checked out at medical.” He deadpans as her eyebrow creases in confusion. “They say that paranoia is the first symptom of a deteriorating agent's mind. It seems to be an epidemic with older women in the fie-"

“You’re incorrigible, you know that?" She responds. 

And just like that, there's the crooked grin she loves so much. She hasn't seen it much but it hurts to stare at it too long, knowing it's not really hers.

The pipes are dripping old rainwater and her back is killing her in this position balancing on the edge of her heels, and somehow, there's no where else she'd rather be.

_ Can we stay like this a little longer?  _ The selfish and emotional side while gunfire rains down below them.

Something glints in the light and just as she's about to scope it out, Cap's voice crackles out on comms, "Godspeed" and the room below them explodes into disorder as the dive down and take out the test subjects' torture machines.

Before the room explodes via Iron Man's repulsors, she sees the glint of light reflect off of a black burner phone next to the photograph of a little girl, out of place in an under-the-table operation.

It's a shame. It might've been the last form a communication one of the test subjects had with their old life. She knows of that longing a too well.

When the mission is over, Rogers reassures Bruce of the thousands of lives saved with the Hulk's aid, even though Natasha feels like she left a part of her old self there in a decimated laboratory.

\---------

Before she can spiral off the deep end of self-loathing even further, she turns her emotions off. It doesn't negate her love for Clint or her ability to perform as an agent, just that she's lost herself along the way and in between.

She stops going to dinner, team movie nights and even just appearing throughout the day in the tower. She makes sure to workout heavily or go to S.H.I.E.L.D. when Laura is in and avoids all of the team by feigning sleepiness or diving into mission planning and training recruits.

Banner eyes her cautiously nowadays suspiciously, as if she's the one who turns into a giant rage monster at the drop of a pin, at her never-ending unphased demeanor after battles when she used to let herself relax. 

She's not herself after missions, with or without Barton. Truth be told, she always feels like she's on one when she's around Clint.

Through tense shoulders and biting her tongue, she survives Stark's quips with familiarity when she eventually has to show her face, tear stains and scars from fingernails digging into her palm long gone; its the renewed coldness and lack of personality as if the world or Fury is still training a sniper on the back of her head. It's too reminiscent of her first months at S.H.I.E.L.D. and she doesn't have Clint to turn to anymore.

She's never felt so lonely.

Thor is off Earth often enough that she doubts he notices but Steve… Steve just looks concernedly at her posture with his fucking no-wrong-door personality and thou-shalt-not-sin coding in his perfectly enhanced DNA.

She hates the shell of a person she's become and can't stand looking at her family. She wants to scream, to bleed and to suffer, anything to distract her from the pain of every waking moment that she sees Clint's face flash into her mind. Every mission, every bullet she fires, and every breakfast alone is hard to get through without immediately wanting to cry. She lies in bed crying most nights when everyone else is asleep, even Stark, listing the ways she's a woman not worth love. She loses herself to this endless cycle of depression in the solitude. She'll never be good enough and she's known that for ages.

She's fucked and the only thing keeping her together is missions away from the Tower or Clint and swarming in S.H.I.E.L.D. paperwork. She can feel her heart coming apart at the seams and she's getting more desperate to make sure people don't see. Obviously, she's failing and won't be able to keep it up much longer before she the picture she has painted molds and turns black. She's irreparable if she leaves the team but this constant chaos so belligerent that will ruin her.

She tries to be obvious enough for Clint to intervene but he barely cares. She both wants and doesn't want him to see her falling apart. There's no way in hell he hasn't seen her state and is probably dreading telling her face to face that she needs to get over it .

But Clint never notices because he's busy with his new girlfriend.

Laura, who's smile with her perfect teeth is so damn nice and swoons her way into the Avengers’ hearts. Laura, who's  _ perfect. _ Natasha nods at her and only makes conversation if she  _ has  _ to in order to stay inconspicuous.

"Nat, you don't even know how happy I am I haven't felt this way in a long time." He said one night on the couch with popcorn in one hand and hopeful look on his face with that melodic effortless laugh that she adores. She hadn't started skipping meals or fully dedicated herself to getting away from the tower, at the time.

All she felt was washed up and cold.

Laura, who isn't a murderer or as fucked up as the goddamn Black Widow. 

Since joining S.H.I.E.L.D., ‘Tasha has never wanted to revert back to her homicidal tendencies to kill someone as much as she wants to off Laura. Not even the mob bosses or serial killers or child rapists could compare to the loathing she holds to Laura. She really should just punch the blonde in the face.

Clint just glances at her and narrows his eyes at her behaviour. He never mentions it between the missions, debriefings and his sudden disappearances post-operations to be with Laura until he stops her after she finishes target training at balls A.M. in the hope to avoid him.

\-------------

It's after a mission, weeks of several HYDRA bombings with no new intel on the spy, when it goes to hell.

Tensions were already high when it crashes own on her. She let her emotions gets to her. Rogers commanded the team as the Hulk took charge against Doctor Doom and his army of droids.

Even Avengers missions, high stakes and critical, were beginning to feel empty.

It had nearly cost Tony's life when she didn't respond to Hawkeye's call to double check the DoomBots for trigger devices.

She had ignored him because he was  _ doubting _ her, an emotion she wouldn't have even imagined him associating with her six months ago. Now, it's all she knows at home.

He can get fucked if he'll doubt her on the one thing she's good at.

She hooks her leg around one of the androids and swings before several charge and crash into her. Five in total go down as she flicks a Widow's Bite to off after she sprints out.

Her anger is simmering and when she realizes her mistake too late.

She had checked the bots but with her Widow's Bite set off a detonator on one of them. A nearby building demolishes to rubble and ash suddenly, while Tony is still inside.

She calls it over comms but Tony barely makes it out alive as his suit clatters to the ground and the arc reactor goes from bright blue to grey.

She gets an earful from Pepper as Tony is dismissed from medical leave, much to her chagrin and Rogers tells her that her debrief will be postponed until tomorrow. Bruce tells her it's not her fault briefly but it doesn't register.

Clint stares at her disbelievingly, and once where she would've sought comfort, he says, “Get a fucking grip, Nat,” because her emotions were controlling her and she or someone on the team could end up dead. There isn't any malice just displaced concern that leaves her body heavy with tension and a weight she can't walk offm

She talks to Nick Fury shortly after that to go on more solo missions and team up with Rogers more often. Nick merely squints at her with his one good eye as the sweat beads she can feel trail down the back of her neck and the tears that she's starving off have her eyes blinking a few times too many. Her work has been affected by her stupid crush and he knows it, and yet, Fury doesn't say anything.

It doesn't matter anyways, she's dug this grave, now she has to lie in it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust me, it gets so much worse before it gets better.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna try and push myself to upload as much as possible this weekend.


End file.
